Girl, Sought (Ella Dark #24)

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

Storage units were strange places, Ella thought. They were liminal spaces where people kept things they couldn’t let go of but couldn’t live with. Places where past lives got packed in cardboard and memories gathered dust behind shutter doors.

The Chesapeake U-Stor was one such place. It was a five-acre lot surrounded by concrete walls crowned with razor wire. Up above, a gunmetal sky hung low in its post-rain comedown. Ella threw the SUV in the parking lot and killed the engine. Somewhere in this maze sat a person who might just be their homicidal collector.

‘Still got thirty minutes before our official meeting,’ Luca said.

'Then let's give Gabriel Thorne a surprise. Are you ready to go in?

‘Try and stop me. I forgot the Air Jordans though.’

‘Did they exist in the first place?’

‘Sort of,’ Luca said. ‘I do have a pair, but Michael Jordan never wore them.’

‘Maybe Thorne will buy them off you while he’s in prison.’ Ella checked her ammo levels, but bullets were best avoided in a place like this. Stainless steel doors and people wandering in and out. A stray bullet could take out an innocent bystander. ‘Let’s go.’

They exited the car and strode towards a glass booth that housed a particularly bored specimen of security guard. His nametag read EARL, and his expression suggested they were interrupting his very important business of reading a newspaper.

‘Help you?’

Ella pressed her badge against the glass. The leather holder was starting to crack at the edges. She kept meaning to replace it but somehow never found the time. ‘FBI. Looking for unit 1121.’

‘FBI?’ The man folded his newspaper and shoved it under his desk. His expression turned sour, the kind of look that suggested he was wondering if what might transpire here was covered by his health insurance.

‘Yes. We’re looking for a Mr. Gabriel Thorne.’

The guard checked his notes. ‘Thorne, you say? He signed in about an hour ago. But I don’t know where he is.’

Luca said, ‘Unit 1121. Which direction?’

‘Up ahead, third left, follow the path around. It’s next to the blue dumpster.’

‘Thank you.’

They walked the narrow lanes between units. Crime scene photos from previous storage unit cases flickered through Ella's mind - dismembered bodies in freezers, drug labs that went boom, human trafficking operations packed into eight-by-tens. Amazing what people thought they could hide behind these roll-down doors.

‘That voice though.’ Luca kept scanning the rows like he expected their unsub to pop out wearing his bug mask. ‘On the phone. Did it match what we heard through Finch's security feed?’

‘Similar cadence. Same Richmond vowels dragging their feet. But phone acoustics are different from CCTV audio. I was too busy watching you tapdance through that cover story to do proper voice analysis.’

‘Same. Thorne is gonna be gutted when he realizes there are no sneakers.’

‘That’s the least of his worries.’

The steel corridors stretched ahead. Ella kept her eyes trained upward, searching for security cameras, but all she found were empty brackets where surveillance equipment should have been. U-Stor clearly subscribed to the ‘thoughts and prayers’ school of security. She cataloged entry and exit points too, building the kind of tactical map they taught at Quantico but never quite prepared you for in the field. Two main gates. Three fire exits. Plenty of room for a suspect to escape.

‘Not many people around here,’ Luca said.

‘Good.’

‘Means less obstacles if we have to shoot.’

‘No. Not unless he’s armed. If Thorne’s our guy, we need him alive.’

Luca shot her a noncommittal look as they turned a corner. Ella counted the storage units as they ascended: 1119, 1120.

‘There,’ she said. ‘1121. End of the row.’

Its door was rolled halfway up. Orange light spilled out onto the wet asphalt. Ella gave Luca a tap on the wrist – a signal for ‘follow my lead.’

As they edged closer, Ella saw a man standing with his back to them, examining something on a folding table. Her hand dropped to her weapon but didn't draw. The pre-confrontation tension surged through her veins. With any luck, she was about to stare down a man with two dead bodies to his name.

‘Mr. Gabriel Thorne?’ she called.

He spun around. Average height, expensive suit that hung wrong on his frame, like borrowed plumage on the wrong bird. Short black hair, with the kind of face that belonged in corporate headshots - bland, trustworthy, forgettable. Behind him she saw a neat storage unit loaded with ornaments, and a steel door at the back with a bar across it.

‘Can I help you?’ His voice carried that Richmond drawl they'd heard on the phone, but softer now.

‘My name’s Agent Dark, and this is Agent Hawkins. We’re with the FBI.’

‘FBI?’ Thorne put his equipment down and came out of the unit. The orange halogen glow cut Thorne's bland features into planes and angles

‘Yes. We need to ask you some questions.’

‘About?’

‘You work for the Curated Value Group, correct?’

‘Correct. Is there a problem?’

‘Depends,’ Luca said.

Thorne’s mouth twitched, then he sighed. ‘Oh, I see. So I guess there are no sneakers for me to appraise, is that right?’ There was no surprise in his voice, no anger at being deceived. Just that same corporate calm.

‘Sorry, Mr. Thorne, but we needed to know where you were.’

‘And you couldn’t have just asked me directly? What’s this about?’

‘Eleanor Calloway and Alfred Finch,’ Luca said. ‘Do those names ring any bells?’

Thorne blinked. Confusion, then suspicion chased across his face. ‘Eleanor? This is about her death?’

'Yes, it is. What do you know about it?'

‘I know that it was in the news. I know our office have been talking about it. That’s it.’

Ella watched his micro-expressions; the tells liars couldn't control. ‘Your company appraised her doll collection recently, is that right?’

'Yes, we did, but I had no contact with her. One of my colleagues did. I never met the woman.'

‘How about Alfred Finch?’ Luca asked.

The name struck a subtle chord. Thorne’s pupils contracted and his breath hitched.

‘Finch? The specimen expert?

‘Correct.’

‘Yeah, I knew him. I appraised his collection about a year ago. Why?’

Ella watched the micro-expressions chase each other across his face: genuine surprise melting into calculation. Thorne had some acting chops, she had to admit, but such deception came naturally to psychopaths.

‘Because we found Mr. Finch dead yesterday too.’

The color drained from Thorne's face in stages. It was like watching time-lapse footage of a corpse going pale.

‘I’m terribly sorry to hear that,’ Thorne said with conviction. ‘Mr. Finch was a wonderful man, but why are you questioning me about this? I never met Miss Calloway, haven’t seen or spoken to Mr. Finch in a year.’

Luca said, 'We have quite a few questions for you, and it's pretty cold out here, so why don't we head to the precinct?'

Thorne gestured to the storage unit behind him and said, ‘I’d love to, but I’m at work here. I have ten vases to evaluate before the day is out, and I really don’t see what these deaths have to do with me.’

Ella said, ‘We insist, Mr. Thorne.

‘We can also talk about your little collection back at your office,’ added Luca.

Thorne's face hardened into something that didn't belong in corporate headshots anymore. His mask slipped in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it flash.

‘You were in my office?’

‘Yup.’ Luca doubled down, either missing or ignoring the warning signals Ella was desperately trying to transmit telepathically.

‘Without a warrant?’

‘Don’t need one when you’re investigating murder suspects,’ Luca said.

Ella bit back a groan. There went any chance of finessing this situation. Sometimes she forgot that teaching someone to bend rules meant they might snap them entirely.

Thorne's shoulders slumped. The anger seemed to drain from him, then was replaced by resignation. ‘Alright, fine. You win. You want to talk at the station? Let’s do it.’

Thorne's sudden compliance lit up every warning sensor in Ella's brain. Serial killers were cowards at heart. All that power and control was just masking the scared little boy underneath. The way Thorne folded at the first sign of real confrontation fit the profile like a glove.

‘Our car is this way,’ Ella said.

‘Bear with me while I shut this place up. Can’t exactly leave Ming vases on display, can I?’

‘Go ahead.’

Thorne walked back into the storage unit, switched off the light and plunged the place into darkness. Ella’s hand tightened on her weapon, because something about this felt off. She felt like she was waiting for the moment of misdirection so that Thorne could try and flee.

Ella's eyes refused to adjust. It was that dangerous moment between light and shadow when anything could happen.

Then Thorne slammed the door shut behind him.

Son of a bitch.

‘Open up!’ Ella grabbed the handle and yanked, but the lock had already engaged. Cold steel bit into her palms as she fought against mechanisms designed to keep people exactly where they didn't want to be. ‘Thorne, don’t make this difficult!’

Humiliation burned like acid. She'd let Thorne lull her into complacency with that mild-mannered act. And now he was hiding, leaving her to impotently beat against a door that wouldn't budge.

No, not hiding. Because Ella could hear footsteps at the opposite end of the unit.

‘Hawkins, back door!’ she yelled.

Their boots hammered wet ground as they sprinted. The storage unit's corrugated sides blurred past, and they rounded the corner just in time to see Thorne’s weaselly figure disappearing between the next row of units.

Luca shouted, ‘Split up. Try and cut him off.’

‘Go.’

Ella went straight on while Luca went right. She mapped the facility’s layout in her head, and if Thorne was heading for the nearest exit, he'd take the path of least resistance. But if he was the killer she thought he was, he'd have this whole escape choreographed down to the last footstep.

Where would I run if I was Thorne?

Not toward the exits. Too obvious. He'd double back and try to lose them in the labyrinth of identical units.

Her boots found puddles in the afternoon gray. She strained her ears for footsteps, breathing, anything - but the maze of metal walls created weird acoustics, bouncing sounds until direction became meaningless. Somewhere in this labyrinth, a man who turned people into collectibles was running with the desperate energy of someone who'd just lost control of their narrative.

She stopped at a fork in the path. Left led toward the main gate, right deeper into the labyrinth. Ella chose right because killers were creatures of shadow. They didn't run toward light unless they had no choice.

The corridor narrowed, steel walls pressing in close enough to make her tactical brain itch. Bad place for a firefight. Worse place for an ambush. But Thorne wouldn't risk confrontation - not when he had his whole carefully curated life to protect.

Dead end.

A solid wall of storage units

‘Shit.’

The word came out as steam in the cold air. She couldn’t hear Luca’s footsteps anymore, so she could only pray he was having better luck than her.

Her pulse hammered against her throat as she spun around, ready to backtrack and try a different route.

But then – there.

Three units down. The door hung slightly open, maybe four inches of darkness visible beneath corrugated steel.

Just enough space for a desperate man to slip through.

And then she heard a shuffle, like a suit jacket being dragged across the floor.

Hiding spot? Ambush waiting to happen?

Ella's finger traced her trigger guard as she considered her options. Thorne could be ready to add an FBI agent to his gallery, or this could be another misdirection on his part. Or it could be nothing.

Standard procedure said wait for backup. But standard procedure had never met a man who dressed dead women as dolls and nailed men to walls.

Ella's heart rate picked up tempo. If this gap was an invitation, sometimes you had to walk into the trap to spring it. Thorne's lead was growing with each wasted breath, and if she hesitated now, he might disappear.

And that wasn't a risk she was willing to take.

‘Gabriel Thorne, FBI!’ she yelled as she edged closer. With her free hand, she eased the door up, wincing as it rattled on its track.

The chemical stench hit her before anything else. Her brain parsed the components even as her nose tried to reject them: kerosene, maybe something stronger.

Shapes resolved out of the gloom, lit by the thin slash of outside light. Barrels, stacked haphazardly. The closest one bore a label that made her rethink any abrupt strategy that had come to mind: a skull and crossbones above blocky text - METHYLATED SPIRITS - HIGHLY FLAMMABLE - CLASS 3 HAZARDOUS MATERIAL.

And there, standing between the barrels: Gabriel Thorne. The corporate mask had melted away now and was replaced by something that belonged in a prison's maximum security wing. One of the drum lids lay discarded at his feet, and the raw chemical smell made Ella's eyes water.

Ella trained her Glock on his shoulder. ‘Step out of the unit, Thorne.’

‘Careful with that gun. Sparks and vapor don’t mix.’

Ella's weapon stayed trained on his center mass, but her tactical mind was already gaming out scenarios. One spark in here and the resulting explosion could take them both out.

‘I’m fine out here,’ she lied. ‘It’s not me they’ll be scraping off the ceiling.’

Thorne slowly reached into his top pocket. Ella’s finger itched on the trigger – but then he pulled out a lighter and a packet of cigarettes.

‘Are you insane?

‘Nope, but I’m not going to jail. You smoke?’ Thorne threw a cigarette in his mouth then threw the packet aside. Then the lighter flared. Ella took two steps back on instinct.

‘The hell are you doing?’

Thorne took a heavy drag, then flicked ash into the open barrel. Smoke curled from his nostrils. ‘You know, I never thought you’d find my… things. I really thought I was careful. ’

Was this it? A confession?

‘You can tell us everything at the station, far away from barrels of kerosene, yes?’

'Not happening. I've been locked away before, and I'm not going back, so this is it…'

'Tell me about Eleanor,' Ella said. Keep him talking. The longer they talk, the less likely they are to do something stupid. 'About Alfred.'

‘I already told you. But you know what's funny? I’ve been playing it straight for a year now. No thefts. Nothing that would get me locked up again.’

Ella lowered her gun a fraction. His words didn't match her profile, because if Thorne was her unsub, he'd be gloating now. He'd be explaining his grand design. Instead, he was talking about petty crime. The disconnect niggled at Ella's brain.

'The masks in your office. The trinkets.’

‘Long story, but here we are anyway.’

The chemicals were making Ella's head spin. Something wasn't adding up. The man before her was scared and desperate, but not with the particular flavor of desperation she'd expected. This wasn't the calculated endgame of a serial killer. This was the panic of a small-time crook about to lose everything.

But before she could parse it further, movement flickered in her peripheral vision. The back door of the unit burst open with a metallic shriek.

Luca barreled through in a blur of momentum and clenched fists. His knuckles cracked across Thorne's jaw in a textbook haymaker and snapped Thorne’s man's head back in a glorious arc. The cigarette went flying. Thorne stumbled towards the door, away from the barrels. Ella pounced on him and dragged him out of the unit and down to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

‘Hawkins! Get away from the…’

But Luca was already beside her with cuffs in hand. He shoved a foot into Thorne’s spine and dropped the cuffs into Ella’s hands. She looked up and saw him taking a lazy drag from Thorne’s discarded cigarette. The picture of calm, like he hadn't just prevented a potential explosion through the tactical application of face-punching.

‘Wanted to make an entrance.’ He blew a smoke ring that looked impossibly smug. ‘Besides, you had him talking.’

Under her knee, Thorne had gone unnaturally still. Not the stillness of defeat, but something that made her profiler's instincts itch in ways she couldn't quite scratch.

But if fortune was on her side, they might have just bagged themselves a serial killer.